Above the Wreckage
by Bards of Bedlam
Summary: A series of DH scenes that were never explained in detail. Pairings include Ron/Hermione and Harry/Ginny. There are also some scenes between family and friends. Flangst warning, and possibly some OOC, though I tried very hard to avoid it .
1. 20 Love Poems and a Song of Despair

DAll right, so this series is comprised of my first attempts at _Harry Potter_ fics, so a lot of them probably won't be very good. I've never made any attempts at capturing these characters before, so please bear with me, and if you have any advice to offer…feel free to share!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the _Harry Potter_ characters, nor do I own _20 Love Poems and a Song of Despair_. Those honors belong to J.K. Rowling and (I believe) Pablo Neruda, respectively.

This first story takes place when Hermione is planning the Memory Charms on her parents. She, of course, isn't happy with the prospect of sending her parents to Australia, and she needs some moral support… Enter Ron, the bumbling idiot who, nevertheless, always manages to make it work.

I'm sorry if Hermione's parents seem unrealistic. I didn't know exactly what to do with them, so I just ended up basing both of them on different aspects of my own mom. (Yes, even the father is based on my mother. I have no knowledge of what a father is supposed to be, they're a freaking alien species…)

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_**20 Love Poems and a Song of Despair**_

Ron was making excuses to his mother again.

He could count on one hand the times that he had lied to his mother and gotten away with it, but he would need several more hands to count the number of times he had tried to do it this summer.

This particular time, he was trying to find a way to get to Hermione's house without telling his mother exactly why he had to go there. She, of course, immediately jumped to the wrong conclusion; she wanted to know exactly why he was going, if her parents would be there to supervise them, if Hermione had her own bedroom… Ron did what he could to reassure her, but there was only so much he could do when she was determined to keep him as isolated as possible from…whatever it was she thought they were planning.

So Ron—who was, for all intents and purposes, a grown man by the standards of the magical world—ended up sneaking out his window in the dim hours of daybreak and falling into the rose bushes below in a very undignified heap.

As he walked down the long lane that led to the road, Ron reached into the pocket of his pants (plain, Muggle-made jeans paired with a dark green tee shirt) and pulled out the letter that he'd received two days ago—the reason for his late-night departure. Smiling slightly, he re-read it again, trusting instinct and a long-cultivated knowledge of his home acres to stop him from walking into a tree.

_Dear Ron,_

_I'm sorry it took so long for me to get a letter to you, but I've been quite busy during the beginning of the holidays, what with planning this and looking for ways out of that and trying to convince my parents that I haven't entered some sort of suicide pact with you and Harry, nor am I about to head off on a kamikaze mission. (You know what kamikaze means, I assume?)_

_Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I'm going to be carrying out my plan exactly a week from tonight. By that time, the travel arrangements will all be made and nothing should stand in Mum and Dad's way. Of course, I feel absolutely dreadful about lying to them and I've probably broken a thousand laws to pieces since all this started, but…it's for their safety, right? I just wish I knew I was doing the right thing…_

_All right, I'm rambling. I can already see you rolling your eyes and thinking that you wish I'd just leave it alone._

_Are you still coming to visit before I come to the Burrow? And how's your part of the plan coming along? Have you gotten the spells quite right yet? They're difficult spells to master, of course—I had a hard time with them, too—but as long as you have help…_

_Oh, Mum's calling me down for dinner. I'd better go; every minute is important now, and I __do__ hope you're being good to your family, Ron, because they're going to worry themselves sick when they find out what we're up to (it's inevitable, you know)._

_Hoping to see you soon! (I will, won't I?)_

_Love,_

_Hermione_

_P.S. Be sure to use that spell I taught you on your return letter if you write one; I don't want the risk of someone else reading our letters.  
_

Enclosed with the letter was a slip of parchment containing Hermione's address and a detailed (very, _very_ detailed) description of her home, along with extremely clear and precise instructions on how to get there through virtually every form of travel (both magical and Muggle). As recently as a year or two ago, Ron would have snorted in annoyance at such an obvious insult to his intelligence, but now he simply smiled affectionately at the gesture that was so very like his best friend.

-----

Upon reaching his destination, Ron (who, after Hermione's extensive coaching, now knew enough about Muggle custom not to go sprawling onto the floor from their fireplace or Apparating directly into their living room) stood on the porch and knocked three times. It was a little after eight in the morning (he had been waiting outside the house for three hours to make sure he wouldn't be waking anyone too early), but the tired-looking, bushy-haired girl who opened the door was already dressed for the day and had apparently started on her breakfast, judging by the half-empty bowl of cereal she clutched in her hand.

Though there were the distinct traces of dark circles under her eyes and she was drooping ever-so-slightly with exhaustion, Hermione's entire face lit up with the grin she bestowed upon her friend, and she dropped the bowl unceremoniously onto the floor as she flung her arms around him. He hugged her back, feeling (and looking) slightly awkward, but nowhere near as uncomfortable as he would have before…something that he couldn't quite put his finger on.

When she finally released him (too soon, in Ron's opinion, though he wasn't even conscious of this thought and would have been thoroughly confused by it), Hermione took his arm and yanked him into the hall, closing the door behind him and leading him to the kitchen, chattering all the while; and for once, she wasn't talking about books or homework. She was just talking to talk, which was a refreshing change from her usual "I-know-everything-and-I-love-to-share-this-undisputable-fact" ways.

"Mum and Dad are still in bed, but they should be up soon and then I'll introduce you and they'll let you stay as long as you like, of course, because I've told them everything about you and Harry and they know you by sight anyway and you don't scare them at all. I think they'll rather like you, once you actually have a conversation. Are you hungry? Have you had breakfast? How's everything at the Burrow? The spell with the ghoul, and everything? I didn't get an answer to my letter and obviously I was wondering why, and—"

"Well, I wanted to surprise you, didn't I?" Ron replied the minute she paused for breath, making himself comfortable at the table and pouring himself a bowl of cereal. He examined it in a confused sort of way for a moment, then took a timid bite. Finding it to his liking, he began to shovel it in at an almost indecent speed.

"Slow down, Ron, you look like you're eating too fast to taste anything."

"S'good," the redhead replied, swallowing heavily and pouring another bowl.

Hermione huffed and shook her head, but her eyes sparkled with amusement as she turned back to the stove to prepare a "real" breakfast of bacon, eggs, and chocolate chip pancakes. Unfortunately for her, the Grangers arrived in the kitchen just in time to hear their daughter swear loudly as her first pancake collapsed into pieces the moment it was threatened with the spatula.

"Oh, I'm such rubbish with pancakes…"

Ron chuckled appreciatively. "Hermione! I didn't know you knew that word…"

"Erm…Hermione, dear?"

The spatula clattered to the counter and Hermione whipped around so fast that she nearly caught her shirt on fire. "Mum! Dad! …Did you, er…hear that…?"

Mr. Granger nodded, but didn't say anything on the matter. Instead, he asked, "Why the sudden need for domesticity? I don't think I've ever seen you make food like this before…"

Neither of them seemed to notice Ron, though Mrs. Granger's gaze flickered to him as she moved to take over for Hermione.

Hermione, for her part, shrugged in answer to her father's question. "I was up. It was there."

Mrs. Granger laughed. "Good a reason as any, I guess. Aren't you going to introduce us to your friend, Hermione?"

Ron choked on his eighty-eighth spoonful of cereal and sat up a little straighter, saying (in an unusually respectful tone), "I'm Ron Weasley, Mrs. Granger."

Mr. Granger looked thoughtful. "Oh! We saw you with your family at the bank that day and had drinks with your father. That's right. How are you? And, uh…no offense, but what are you doing here?"

"Ron just came to visit, Dad. He wanted to surprise us. We both hoped you wouldn't mind…"

"No, we don't, we were just surprised, is all," Mrs. Granger replied. "We hear all about your friends, Hermione, but we never actually see them…"

"Half the time we wondered if they were figments of your imagination," Mr. Granger added teasingly, earning himself a slap from the towel that Mrs. Granger had just picked up from the counter.

Ron chuckled and, feeling safe enough to turn back to his cereal, did so with only slightly less enthusiasm than before.

-----

"Okay, I honestly can't believe your mother let me up here. My mum would _never_ leave me alone with…" Ron faltered to a halt and blinked for a minute, not sure what he'd been about to say but knowing that it could have had disastrous results. "Well, anyway, I'm surprised she's not up here watching our every move."

Hermione, who was sitting at her desk and flipping through a stack of parchment, smiled as she looked up at him. "Yeah, well, Mum and Dad are a bit naïve about that sort of thing, and anyway, there's no reason we can't be alone, is there?"

Ron felt his heart skip a beat at the smile on her face, and cursed inside his head. The smile he tossed back was nonchalant, however, and he threw himself down on the bed, leaning up against the headboard and holding a pillow to his stomach as he looked happily around.

The bedroom they currently occupied was much like the rest of the house, but with a personal touch that was distinctly "Hermione". The floors were hardwood of a slightly lighter shade than the furniture, which appeared to be made of cherry wood. The bed was buried beneath several multicolored layers of sheets and blankets, a comforter, and six pillows; it seemed that Hermione had trouble staying warm and getting comfortable. In addition to the bed, there was a small table and a desk that was currently buried beneath countless scraps of parchment, some books, and a half-finished History of Magic essay; apparently, Hermione had forgotten for at least little while that she wouldn't be returning to Hogwarts.

Every inch of wall that wasn't covered by furniture was, of course, lined with bookshelves; there must have been upwards of seven hundred books in this room alone, and Hermione had told him that there was easily that many in the living room and at least a few hundred in her parents' room. That, she said, wasn't even taking to account the study or all the boxed-up books that they hadn't yet managed to find room for. Clearly, Hermione's bookworm status hadn't come to her by accident.

"So…how's your part of the plan coming? Everything going right?"

Hermione sighed in exasperation. "_Yes_, Ronald."

"Well there's no reason to get all defensive, I was just—"

"Yes there is! You always act like I don't know what I'm doing… 'Womenfolk' and all that, and—"

"You know that's not true, you're so sensitive, I was _just_—"

"Will you let me finish a sentence, please, Ronald?"

"Only if you'll let me finish one…"

Then they fell silent, more for lack of anything to argue about than anything else. Ron sat with his arms crossed, and Hermione went back to riffling through her papers with unnecessary force; she finally ripped one and tossed them all aside in a huff.

"_How_ do we always get ourselves into these fights?" Hermione suddenly exploded.

"Oh, I don't know… Could it be that you're impossible to live with?"

At that, Hermione flared up again. "Or maybe _you're_ the one who's impossible."

Ron opened his mouth to reply, but suddenly closed it again and smiled slightly, leaning back into his former position. "Could be."

Hermione couldn't help herself; she laughed.

The next silence they fell into was much more comfortable as Hermione now began to make what Ron could only assume was a list of some sort on a piece of parchment.

After a few minutes, Ron—more for something to do than for any other reason—stood up and walked over to one of the bookshelves, feigning interest in its contents. He selected one at random and began to flip absentmindedly through it while he watched Hermione out of the corner of his eye. "So…how're you doing with…everything? You…y'know…holding up okay?"

Rather than going into a temper again as Ron half-expected, Hermione simply didn't answer for several moments, but kept writing. After awhile, though, she set her quill aside and looked out the window with a sigh. "'Love is so short, and forgetting is so long…'"

"…Huh?"

Hermione sighed, in exasperation this time. "It's from _Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair_."

"…Right."

Another sigh. "The book in your hands, Ron."

"Oh! Right! I knew that…"

Hermione just shook her head in amusement. "Anyway, I doubt Pablo Neruda was talking about parents when he wrote that, but…well, it kind of applies here, doesn't it?"

Ron tried and, of course, failed to understand what Hermione was talking about, but felt it was best not to say anything at all.

-----

The next day was what Hermione had come to think of as The Day.

The charms went off without a hitch, and Ron and Hermione (after hiding in the bushes for two hours outside the house) watched from a safe distance as the Granger parents boarded a plane to Australia that afternoon. Hermione remained calm, though strangely silent, throughout; Ron was extremely grateful for this, as he was rather frightened by girls who were prone to hysterics.

It wasn't until they were back at Hermione's house to pack her things that either of them spoke. Without saying a word, Hermione led the way to her room and started throwing clothes into a bag—light layers; she was packing for all contingencies—and Ron picked up a list of books from her desk and started to remove the titles from the shelves.

Several minutes passed before Ron registered the lack of movement coming from the other side of the room, and he looked up to see Hermione holding a sweater and staring thoughtfully at something on her bedside table that Ron couldn't see. Frowning, Ron put down the book he was holding (_100 Common Magical Poisons and Their Equally Common Antidotes_) and walked over to stand behind her. She didn't notice him, which was never a good sign.

Then he caught a glimpse of what she was looking at, and his frown deepened. The only thing left on the table, aside from the lamp and the alarm clock, was a framed photo of Hermione and her parents that looked as though it had been taken on the train platform on Hermione's first day at Hogwarts.

Ron didn't know what to say. Hermione looked caught between tears and stoicism, and the redhead wasn't honestly sure how to deal with either one. So he settled for one of the most tactful and yet reassuring sentences he had ever uttered.

"You won't have to forget them, you know."

Hermione blinked out of her reverie and returned to him. "Huh?"

"What you said earlier. 'Love is so short, forgetting is so long.' You won't have to worry about forgetting them, or them forgetting you. You'll see each other again, and when you do they'll remember who you are and you'll never have to leave each other again." He smiled at her, and prayed for her to smile back; comforting people never came easy for him. He supposed it was a guy thing.

Hermione blinked at him in surprise.

"…What? Every now and then I listen…"

She laughed. "Yeah, I guess you do."

Ron tried to scowl, failed miserably, and turned his back on her to grin at the bookshelves. Even concentrating on the books as he was, though, he still watched out of the corner of his eye as she picked up the picture from her table and slipped it into her pack.

-----

Hermione found the house—indeed, her entire street—eerily silent the next morning. She couldn't ever remember a day passing at her home when she didn't see her parents at some point, and now she didn't know whether or not she would ever see them again.

They hadn't even gotten to say goodbye.

On the sidewalk, she turned to look back at the house one last time, and felt Ron stop beside her.

"I've never really lived anywhere else, you know…"

Ron nodded. "Yeah, I know."

Hermione took a deep breath, bestowed one last, long look on the vacant house, and turned resolutely away. "Well, let's get going. Your mother is probably worried out of her mind. You _did_ leave a note, didn't you?"

Ron sighed heavily. "Yes, dear."

Hermione laughed in spite of herself. "That's not funny, Ronald."

"You laughed, didn't you?"

"…No."

Ron grinned. "Liar."

Then, without thinking (or regretting), he reached out to give her hand a light squeeze. The pressure was gone so quickly that Hermione half wondered if she'd imagined it, and then he turned and walked off down the street; they planned to Disapparate in a field about ten minutes outside the suburb to avoid unwanted attention from the always nosy neighbors.

Hermione stared after him for a long time. Ron didn't appear to even notice what he'd just done, but she certainly had.

Shaking her head, she ran to catch up to him.

And she silently cursed herself for wishing he'd held on longer.


	2. Forging Hope

Okay, here is my third attempt at a _Harry Potter_ story, and my second attempt at a _Harry Potter_ story with an actual almost-plot behind it.

This story takes place after the hustle and bustle and panic has died down from Harry and his bodyguards' narrow escape from the Death Eaters. The story is written from Fred's point of view, because I thought that would be the best way for the emotional aspects of this scene to be expressed. It also shows a different side of the twins that I don't think any of us ever really consider. (I know I certainly don't…)

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_**Forging Hope**_

It's getting harder and harder to keep up with our game.

Well, "game" isn't really the right word for it, I guess. Because it's really not a game. It's…more like a lifestyle, I guess, though that isn't really the word for it, either. One thing, though, is certain; long ago, we stopped noticing this game we play. It's more than instinct, more than a piece of our personality.

Our game is who we are.

Whether our family will admit it or not, they're relieved to know that no matter what happens, they'll always have us to fix everything.

Because, yes, whether any of us acknowledges it, or even realizes it at all, our friends and family _do_ depend on us. Without us, our little corner of the world would be a very dark one. Mum would probably be crying constantly and everyone else would be _ridiculously _tense.

I'm not bragging; I'm simply stating a fact, one that I'm sure anyone who has ever met us or been to our shop would agree with.

And another fact is that as much as everyone depends on us to keep their lives on the brightest possible side, that's how much my brother and I depend on them to let us do it. It's obvious that we aren't happy unless we're making other people happy.

But one of us is nothing without the other. It takes two to play this particular game.

So when I thought I was going to lose one half of the equation…well, you can imagine how much I hated the idea.

Again, we arrive at the problem of finding the right word. "Hate" isn't strong enough for the hot, sick stab of despair and terror and indescribable anger at Fate that swept over me when I caught my first sight of George, blood pouring from a hole in the side of his head, looking more than half-dead and probably soon to be in a great deal of pain…once he finally woke up.

The minutes between the time I arrived back at the house and the time when George finally opened his eyes were the longest I could ever remember experiencing. I don't even remember them, really; nowadays they're just a long, drawn-out blur of confusion and emptiness and total, mind-numbing fear.

Then he finally opened his eyes, and I swayed with relief as the first word out of his half-smiling mouth was one of the jokes that kept our world in its proper alignment.

In the long, noisy, tense hours that followed, our fragmented group slowly came back together. I just sat with George and watched it all go down, occasionally interjecting with a question or comment, but mostly just sitting on the couch next to my brother and soaking up the comfort that only he knows how to provide.

A long while and several angry and grief-driven outbursts later, everyone took themselves off to bed. George had already made himself comfortable on the couch and didn't seem to feel any desire to move, and I flat-out refused to leave him, so we ended up staying right there all night long, sharing a few off-hand jokes and the playful barbs we sometimes enjoy throwing at each other, but mostly just sitting in silence and reveling in the relief of still being alive and together.

That night was an absolute horror, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. Every time I closed my eyes and started to drift off, I saw an image of the person I loved most in the world covered in blood and lying deathly still on a crimson-stained couch; only, in this nightmare, he never opened his eyes. Never cracked another joke. Never gave me another of those grins which are absolutely identical to my own.

Heh. Identical to the last freckle. Or at least, we used to be.

But then the sun came up and the nightmare ceased to matter when George threw a sarcasm-clad joke at me almost before he opened his eyes. By the time everyone came down to breakfast, we were laughing together, for all the world as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Soon, everyone else was laughing with us, and there were no problems left in our little world. There was no war, no suffering, no anger or worry or apprehension or anything other than smiles and amusement and slightly off-color humor.

Yes, as always, it was Weasleys for the win.

But then, who ever really expected anything else?


	3. Madhouse

Mmm, more Ron/Hermione goodness, taking place after the madness dies down from the torture scene in the Malfoy mansion. Everyone is in bed, and Ron finally has some alone time with his favorite girl.

It's probably going to be the worst one in this series, but honestly, I didn't put a lot of effort into this one. I just wanted to write it.

These two are just the cutest couple ever… And after that last story, I _really_ needed a pick-me-up! So here we go… Mindless, fluffy goodness. Yummy.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_**Madhouse**_

Before he had fallen for Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley had never known true terror. Fear? Yes. Confusion? Sure. Anger? Hell yes. But real, consuming, mind-numbing panic?

Never.

But now he had something to panic _for_, and damn if he didn't hate every single nanosecond of it.

So when he heard her pained and frightened screams above him as he sat, helpless, beneath them, his natural reaction was to fly into a towering rage and very nearly break the house in which they all currently resided.

And when they finally escaped, he was certain that he would never be able to forget the way she'd looked as she clung tightly to him for protection. She was absolutely white—like a ghost, but not with the pearly, translucent beauty. Her eyes are wide and refused to blink, and for the longest time, she acted as though she couldn't see him.

Maybe she couldn't. It was hard to tell.

Now, sitting by her bedside and watching her sleep, he felt that his world had been rocked in such a way that it would never be put right entirely.

It had been too close a call.

-----

It had been a long night for Ron, but he was sure it was an even longer one for Hermione, who hadn't had a moment's true rest up to this point; she had been too busy mourning Dobby, then helping Ron and Harry plan what to do next, even though she looked as though she was on the verge of collapse the entire time.

He hadn't ever experienced the kind of pain he knew she must be in, but he could imagine it—pain so agonizing and so prolonged that the tortured one felt it in every part of their body for days following the ordeal.

So he wasn't too surprised that she didn't sleep through the night. He _was_, however, surprised by the manner in which she awoke; she jerked into sitting position, covered in a light sheen of sweat, and then yelped at the sudden stab of pain in her still-aching muscles before giving the room a frantic sweep with wide, terrified eyes.

"Hermione?"

Her eyes finally came to a rest on him, then slowly went down to the hand that the redhead had grabbed in his panic. The sight calmed her immensely, and she smiled shakily at him. "Ron. You're…here."

Ron smiled reassuringly at her and replied in a hushed voice, "Of course I'm here."

"What time is it?" Her eyes now went around the room again, this time in search of a clock.

"Never mind that. Come on, lay back down…"

She blinked at the tone and volume of his voice and, uncharacteristically, did exactly as she was told. "Where is everybody?"

"Asleep. That's why I'm trying to keep quiet. I don't want to wake anyone up."

"Oh… Well, you really should go to bed too, then, shouldn't you?"

Ron smiled slightly. "Yes, I probably should." But he didn't move from the chair. Instead, he reached out to push a lock of hair out of her eyes. "How're you feeling?"

"Mmm… All right, I guess." For once, she didn't have the energy to pretend she was fine. But she at least had the presence of mind to hide what she _really_ wanted—that is, to curl up in the safety of Ron's arms and never leave them again, come Hell or high water.

Ron's brow furrowed, but he didn't reply. Instead, he simply reached out and began to stroke her hair in soothing, repetitive motions. "Go back to sleep, Hermione. I'll stay here until you fall asleep, okay?"

She opened her mouth to protest, but the words were lost on the way to her mouth as the gentle touch on her head began to lull her into a peaceful state.

Maybe he could stay for just a _little_ longer…

-----

When she next awoke, it was that darkest hour just before dawn and Ron was no longer by her bedside. Her eyes widened in panic at this discovery…only to return to their normal size as they rested on the redhead, who was stretched out on a bed across the room that Hermione was certain hadn't been there before.

Sighing in relief, she returned to her horizontal position and tried to fall back to sleep. The effects of her nightmare lingered, however, and it was a relatively short time before she gave it up as a bad job and climbed slowly out of the bed, her aching muscles making their protests heard with a vengeance.

Ron stirred and blinked sleepily as he felt the covers being lifted off him and a warm body sliding underneath them to curl up beside him. "Hermione?" he asked groggily, sitting up halfway and rubbing his eyes. "Everything okay? You all right?"

She was silent, which worried him immensely; Hermione Granger was many things, but she was _never_ silent.

"…Hermione?"

"I…had a bad dream." God, even to her, the explanation was pathetic.

"Oh…" He blinked, not quite sure what to say. "Wanna talk about it?"

She shook her head mutely and hid her face in his shoulder.

"Oh…okay…" Then, as much to Ron's astonishment as Hermione's, he raised his arms and put them around her, pulling her into a comforting embrace. And, surprisingly, it did not feel awkward in the slightest; on the contrary, it felt absolutely right. "Go back to sleep, all right? I'm right here. I'll stay right here for as long as you want me to."

She opened her mouth to thank him, but snapped it shut; better not to say anything, in case he changed his mind. So she just snuggled closer…and tried to forget.

But she couldn't. Hermione had always had a disturbingly good memory, and this was one of those times when she cursed that fact with everything she had. She kept reliving that moment from her dream, over and over and over; she couldn't forget, even in sleep, the absolute agony that Bellatrix had laughingly subjected her to. Then Ron had been killed…then Harry… Everything she loved was gone, and only pain was left to take its place.

Ron must have felt her trembling, because he tightened his hold on her and said in an oddly constricted voice, "Hermione, it's okay…I'm right here…don't cry, please don't cry…"

That was when she realized that her cheeks were wet, and that she couldn't stop once she'd started.

But there, safe in someone's arms for the first time in her life, she let it all go. She lay there and cried; she cried for her parents, for lives lost, for herself, for her friends, for the world… And she cried because she didn't know how much longer she could stand to be strong.

And through it all, he stayed. He didn't have any words of comfort, because Ronald Weasley was far from being a wordsmith. So he simply kissed her forehead gently and rocked her comfortingly until her sobs subsided to half-hearted hiccups.

That was the night that Hermione Granger cried.

And she knew she couldn't forget.


	4. Weep Not for the Memory

Not much to say about this piece… It takes place after Fred's death; I didn't think we saw nearly enough of George's reaction.

So read, and enjoy! (Or…cry. It's really up to you.)

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_**Weep Not for the Memory**_

_It isn't real_.

That was all George could think as he stared at the lifeless form in front of him.

It wasn't real, because if it was, then that meant that George was only half a person and that just wasn't right, or fair, or possible.

It isn't possible for one half of a person to live and for the other person to die, right? And Fred and George _were_ the same person. They did everything exactly the same.

No one ever said "Hello, Fred" or "Hello, George"; it was always "Hello, Fred and George" or "Hi, guys" or something similar.

They had even fallen for Angelina together, though George had surrendered when he'd seen how much this particular girl had meant to his brother.

They finished each other's sentences and had the same ideas and never disagreed about anything because how can a person disagree with themselves?

He would talk to Hermione. Yes, that would be the answer. He would talk to Hermione, and she would use her unfailing and unfaltering logic to prove that it wasn't scientifically possible for Fred Weasley to be dead, or hurt, or anything that his twin brother wasn't.

_Fred, why didn't you __tell__ me that you planned to die? I would have come with you_…

But maybe he _had_ told George…and George had just been in denial at the time. Because there_ had_ been a conversation…

-----

_This was easily the most frightening situation they had ever been in._

_The Room of Requirement at Hogwarts was chock-full of people, and no one seemed to be taking notice of one another. That was just fine with the twins, who were perfectly content to stand off in a corner and not think about entertaining anyone._

_It was one of __those__ moments. The ones when there was no humor in the words they spoke or in the silence that hung in the air when they weren't talking._

"_George?"_

_George blinked and looked at his brother, surprised by the sudden break in the silence. "Yeah?"_

"_You know as well as I do that there's not much chance of us all making it through this."_

"…_C'mon, Fred, don't say that. We'll be okay_…_ We're Weasleys! Weasleys for the win, right?"_

_Fred gave him a half-smile. "Yeah_…_yeah, that's the way it's always been, hasn't it?" His smile faded. "But_…_it can't always be that way. One of us has to go sometime_…_"_

"_What're you talking about, bro? You're kind of freaking me out_…_"_

_Fred didn't answer for awhile, and when he did, his voice was oddly quiet. George recognized the signs; they were only quiet when they were on the verge of tears or very, __very__ angry. And this time, it was most definitely the former._

"_George, will you promise me something?"_

"_Anything. You know that." For once, he couldn't read Fred's mind. That scared him more than anything._

"_I want you to promise_…_that if I don't make it through_…_ George, please don't cry for me."_

"…_Fred, what_…_? No, you're gonna be fine!"_

_Ignoring his brother for the first time in memorable history, Fred plowed resolutely on. "I want you to remember me and laugh. If you can only remember me with tears_…_don't remember me at all."_

"_Fred_…_"_

"_Promise me_._"_

"_NO!" Also for the first time in memorable history, George was angry at his brother. "No, I'm __not__ promising, because you're going to be fine! __We__ are going to be fine, do you understand me?"_

_Fred blinked at him, and then gave him a grin. "Yessir."_

_And just like that, the tension was gone and that cocky humor was back and they were trading humor and laughing and forgetting the rest of the world again._

-----

Fred had died less than an hour later.

It was the first thing they hadn't done together.

Weasleys for the win…

Who the hell did they think they were they kidding?


	5. Tested and True

Okay, I hope you people were happy with that last chapter. I had to keep re-reading Fred's death scene to make sure I wasn't overstepping anything that JKR had established in the book.

So as I was sitting there wiping my tears off the keyboard and looking _truly_ pathetic, I decided the time was ripe for more fluff.

So here you go. Fluff plus angst equals flangst and a very happy authoress.

Enjoy! (I sure will.)

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_**Tested and True**_

Harry was fairly certain that this was _not_ the time or place.

He was pacing the room restlessly, completely unable to settle. Every once in awhile, he would run his hand through his (still unruly) hair, trying to quiet the adrenaline that still ran through his veins.

On the other side of the wall, the festivities were still going on; Harry could hear the laughter, the toasts, the raucous singing that had broken out, led by Hagrid and a group of Gryffindors. He couldn't decide if the sounds should comfort him, irritate him, or make him want to join.

He settled on the second one.

"Oh, for heaven's _sake_," Ginny finally exploded. "Will you sit _down_?"

Harry gave her a sheepish smile. "Right. Sorry." He sat. He didn't feel that Ginny's temper should be tested at this crucial juncture.

As he sat, Ginny stood up and took to retracing his path over the chamber's floor. "So what happens now?" she finally asked.

"…What do you mean?"

"Well, there's nothing keeping us apart now, is there?"

Harry sighed heavily. "No, there's not." He was silent for a moment, before looking up to meet Ginny's eyes. "But there's nothing keeping us together, either."

Ginny sighed heavily, and dropped into a chair on the other side of the room; she obviously did not want to be touched right now. There was a very long, very uncomfortable silence, during which Harry fidgeted with his glasses and Ginny studied him with an intent, unwavering gaze.

"You're an idiot."

Harry blinked and looked up. "Gee, thanks."

"I mean it. You are a complete and total moron, a disgrace to your fellow man, an insult to my undeniably superior intelligence."

Harry grinned. "I know."

Ginny smiled, and nodded. "Good. As long as you know."

The next silence was shorter, a bit more comfortable, and allowed Harry to place his glasses back on his nose instead of repeatedly breaking them and repairing them with his wand.

"I don't know if I can ever forgive you, you know."

Harry sighed heavily. "I know."

"I want to."

He looked up at her again. "I know that, too."

"So maybe I can."

Harry smiled slightly. "I hope so."

Another long silence.

"So…where does that leave us?" he asked hesitantly.

Ginny shrugged, and replied quietly, "Depends."

"On what?"

"Hypotheticals." She paused as she studied him, knowing that when she gave him the look she was giving him now, he didn't dare lie to her. "If the same thing were to happen again—if we haven't really won, for some Godforsaken reason, or if his followers come after you for revenge—will you leave me behind again, or will you trust me to be able to handle myself _and_ watch your back, like you should have done in the first place?"

Harry considered this carefully, then sat back in his chair and said truthfully, "That _is_ what I should have done in the first place. I know it, and you know I know it. You're just rubbing it in now."

Ginny nodded. "Yes."

"You're impossible."

Another nod, this time accompanied by the faint shadow of a smile. "Yes."

Then they both burst into laughter, and Harry's arms were suddenly filled with a grinning, giggling Ginny.


End file.
